Don Pendleton - Death Squad

"Let's chow up first," Loudelk suggested, his eyes on Schwarz. The electronics man nodded, and they went off together toward the kitchen.

Schwarz halted in the doorway and turned back to Bolan. "You get anything worthwhile from that tape I sent back?"

"Plenty," Bolan assured him. "Chopper and Gunsmoke are out reconning a couple of leads right now." He got to his feet and strolled over to join Schwarz in the doorway. "And a special little chunk of dynamite I saved for myself. I didn't know quite how to use it but now ... well, I believe Loudelk's intelligence has shown me the way. Listen, Gadgets, get those radio monitors set up just as soon as possible. They're going to be a hell of a weapon for us." He started to walk away, then whirled back and added, "And listen—I don't care how much it costs—set up a mobile capability. Maybe we can use the horse as a rolling command post. You know what I'm thinking of?"

Schwarz was smiling with bright enthusiasm. "I know exactly what you're thinking of. I dunno if I can do it in one day, though."

Bolan slapped him on the rear and said, "Sure you can. A genius can do anything."

Schwarz grinned and went on into the kitchen.

Bolan walked back across the big room and onto the patio. Deadeye Washington was out there, working over his sniper piece with a cleaning cloth. "You ate yet?" Bolan asked him.

Washington nodded solemnly. "If you can call a TV Dinner eating," he replied. "When we gonna get a cook around here?"

Bolan ignored the question. "We have work. You're on me. Side-arm only, street clothes. Meet me out front in ten minutes."

Washington sighed and grunted up out of the chair. "Good thing," he said, chuckling. "Gettin' lazy. Been about twelve hours since I sweated bird turds."

Carl Lyons pulled his car into the driveway of the modest tract home, thoughtfully eyed the sack of groceries on the seat beside him, and mentally ran over the list of items Janie had asked him to buy. He had detoured via the barber shop for a quick trim, where he had further dwadled over some television replays of the latest Rams games, and unavoidably the shopping list had become somewhat blurred in his memory. He poked absently into the sack, hoping he hadn't forgotten anything. He needed to lie down for at least an hour before dinner and then return to duty. He certainly had no desire to spend the balance of his free time running back and forth to the supermarket.

The young policeman stepped out of the car, dragging the sack with him and then swinging it under one arm. He kicked the door shut and headed up the walk to the kitchen door, pausing momentarily to reposition a child's tricycle that was blocking the way.

His wife was standing at the open door of the refrigerator, peering into its depths with a perplexed frown. This was the way Lyons appreciated Janie best—candid, off-guard, unaware of her husband's observation. Not that she exhibited an affected manner in his presence; it was just that she had a special quality that shone more brightly in personal solitude. She looked up and caught him gazing at her with a special quality of his own. The luminous eyes flashed in a startled smile, and she said, "Thought you were either lost or arrested. You've been gone for an hour and a half."

"Haircut," he explained, fanning the back of his head with an open palm. He placed the sack on the drainboard. "I probably forgot something."

Janie was still standing at the open refrigerator. "I could have sworn we had a bottle of Seven-Up," she said.

"Now that wasn't on the list, Janie," Lyons declared defensively.

She smiled. "Go tell it to your friend in there. How am I going to mix him a drink if we have no mix? Huh, Mr. Detective?"

"What friend?" Lyons asked, frowning.

"Mr. Mac-something-or-other. He said you were expecting him. Aren't you expecting him?" She slammed the refrigerator door, reading the expression on her husband's face. "These salesmen!" she exclaimed in controlled fury. They'll try anything to get in the door. Go in there and tell him we don't want a thing, not a thing, unless he has an instant money tree for nothing down and nothing a week. You tell him. I have to get supper."

Lyons was already moving through the swinging door and along the short hallway. He hesitated at the archway into the living room. A tall man in a conservatively tailored suit stood at the window, his back to Lyons. Neatly trimmed blond hair shimmered in the sunlight filtering through the window. Lyons's four-year-old son, Tommy, was holding the man's hand and pointing to something in the yard.

The man turned slowly to acknowledge Lyon's entrance, a faint smile twisting at his lips. "We meet again," he said softly. "Fine boy you have here." He ruffled Tommy's hair with a gentle hand. "He was just telling me about your mole problem. You'd think, in this atomic age, someone would have come up with a sure cure for lawn pests."

Lyons's heart was thundering in his ears. He glanced at his son, who was tugging trustingly at the man's fingers, and his mouth went dry. "Mama needs you in the kitchen, Tommy," he croaked.

The boy stared at his father for a rebellious moment, then scowled unhappily and marched obediently out of the room. The tall man spread his hands in front of him, palms down, as if to show that they were empty and unthreatening.

"What the hell are you doing here, Bolan?" Lyons snarled in a tightly controlled voice.

"A brief truce, like last night. In the interests of justice."

"Last night was a fluke! You'll never walk away from me again, Bolan."

"Don't go off half-cocked," Bolan warned softly. "I have no wish to bring warfare into your home." His eyes flicked toward the kitchen door. "Those are nice people in there. Let's keep it peaceful."

Lyons was angry enough to spit brimstone. "You've got a goddamned nerve, coming into my house. All right, Bolan. Let's hear what's on your mind?"

Bolan's eyes swept to a small plastic case resting on a table near the window. "I brought along a tape player. I want you to listen to a recording we made from a drop in Varone's Hollywood apartment."

"Why?" Lyons was developing interest despite himself.

"I want to see if you can identify a cop, from his first name and his voice."

"Again, why?"

"Because this cop is on the Mafia payroll."

A brief silence ensued; then: "But why do you bring it to me? Just because I froze once doesn't mean I've become your bosom buddy. Why me?"

"Because I figure any good cop will want to uncover a bad one. And I can't very well walk into the Hall of Justice with it, can I?" Bolan's eyes flicked once again to the kitchen door. "You are a good cop, aren't you, Lyons?"

The detective's lips twitched under a strongly guarded emotion. "All right. Play your tape. You want to sit down?"

"Thanks, I'll stand." Bolan twisted to one side to rest his hands on the tape player. "It's best that I stay right here in the window. My outside man would get nervous if I moved out of his sight."

"You think of it all, don't you?"

A faint smile played on Bolan's face. "Have to," he replied. "It's the only way I stay alive. You should try playing fox over the hill someday, with yourself as the fox."

"Don't cry on my shoulder, Bolan. You're the guy who blew the whistle that started the game."

"See any tears?" Bolan asked pleasantly. "I was just apologizing for busting into your home this way."

"I believe you are apologizing," Lyons admitted grudgingly.

Bolan looked surprised. "I am." He pushed a control at the front of the player. "I made a copy of the pertinent part of our tape and put it in a cartridge for you." He adjusted the volume control.

"You'll have to listen closely. There's a bit of background noise here and there."